


i just wish that one of us would go away

by minyoungis



Series: BTS [13]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Sadness, Swearing, idolverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minyoungis/pseuds/minyoungis
Summary: It’s unconscious, the way you pick two forks, how he takes down two plates. But there’s no underlying playfulness, no jumping over extended legs, no pouted demands for kisses in exchange for cutlery, no back hugs accompanied by only half-joking whines for a bigger portion of the food.
Relationships: Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Reader
Series: BTS [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973482
Kudos: 28





	i just wish that one of us would go away

**Author's Note:**

> whoopsie

_**Hobi** : Are you still mad at me?_

_A little bit. You?_

_**Hobi** : Same._

_Wanna get lunch?_

**_Hobi_ ** _: Meet at the kitchen in 5._

Clicking your phone off, you close the novel you’ve been attempting to read in vain for the last hour, sighing as you place a worried palm on its hardcover front. The living room alcove you’re currently curled up in is usually the perfect spot for you to get lost in the pages of a book, your preferred place to forget about people and things and problems and…fights, but it’s proving to be ineffective today.

Not that you’ve had much experience with fights. Not fights with Hoseok at least. Until now.

**_Why can’t you be fucking sensible about this?_ **

The backdoor creaks gently as the man in question enters the house, rubber boots in hand dripping mud on the hardwood floors, looking deep in thought but with that warm glow that follows satisfying work. Gardening does that to him. It may not fix all the issues, but it clears his head enough to think through things logically. You hope he’s managed to come up with something truly spectacular, because at this point, you don’t really see anything working.

He hasn’t noticed you sitting where you are as he distractedly places the shoes on top of some newspapers and takes off his dirty gardening gloves, laying them on the shelf.

“Hey,” you say, softly so he doesn’t startle.

Still, his shoulders give a little shake and he lets out a tiny yelp before calming down again and turning to face your still sat down form.

**_You’re the one being a dick right now!_ **

He has a smudge of mud on his left cheek, and in his hands, he’s holding a small bouquet of colourful zinnias and marigolds. In a different scenario, in a _familiar_ scenario, this is when you would get up and walk towards him, gently rubbing off the dirt on his face as he gives you the flowers with a cheeky wink and a sweet kiss. But nothing feels normal about this. You have no idea how to navigate this negativity, this post-argument stillness, this constant uncertainty and confusion about whether this is actually really serious or if you’ve just blown it up in your head by thinking and analysing too much.

He attempts a grin, but it comes out more as a grimace. Taking in your furrowed eyebrows, your worried pout and your chapped lips from all the chewing, he gives a little sigh before slowly making his way towards you, hesitantly, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. Or scare himself off.

But you’re too tired to have an adverse reaction, drained from all the feelings of the past twenty four hours. If anything, there’s a tiny glimmer of reassurance, that you both may have screamed yourselves hoarse but you’re still able to be in the same room. It’s with relief that you move your legs up further towards your chest, book and phone cradled in the nook in between, making some space for Hobi to sit on the other side of the alcove.

**_Been wanting to pick a fight for a while, haven’t you?_ **

You don’t take your eyes off of him, fingers itching to reach up and wipe off the brown spot on his face, now that his body is so close to yours, but obstinately not touching. With a shrug of his shoulders, he holds out the bouquet towards you, not meeting your eyes.

“Thanks,” you mumble, knowing that this is more a perfunctory gesture than anything as you accept it from him, careful not to brush his fingers in the process. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

The silence is stifling, but welcome in the aftermath of tension and heavy emotion. You’re sure that breaking it would be worse. You continue to stare at the mud on his cheek, hands absentmindedly fiddling with the flowers as his gaze remains fixed on a spot only he knows on the floor.

“What do we do for lunch?”

“We have leftovers from last night,” you reply, tone equally blank but throat momentarily catching when you say the last two words.

**_Fuck off! I don’t want to talk to you anymore._ **

“Great,” he replies, in a voice that suggests the exact opposite, and you _know_ he’s remembering how the mixed up dinner order started the confrontation in the first place. Deep down, you know that it’s been simmering, that spending so much time away from each other could only go one way. All it took was a small misunderstanding and suddenly, pent up frustrations from weeks were being hurled around like grenades, each one more vicious, more vile, more damaging, completely transforming what was supposed to be the first dinner the two of you were having together at home in a month into a bloodbath.

“I’ll go heat it up, then,” he says unsurely, uncertain about whether you’re going to agree with him or if he’s managed to set off another explosion.

Nodding, you turn to let the bottom of your feet graze the floor and push yourself off of the cushions without looking at Hoseok. You assume he’ll follow you. You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t.

As you’re taking the boxes out of the fridge, you hear him turn on the microwave, stepping as far away from you as he can in the kitchen as you keep them for reheating. It’s unconscious, the way you pick two forks, how he takes down two plates. But there’s no underlying playfulness, no jumping over extended legs, no pouted demands for kisses in exchange for cutlery, no back hugs accompanied by only half-joking whines for a bigger portion of the food. Distantly, as you place your plate down on the table opposite his already seated form, you realise that there hasn’t been in a while.

**_I’m tired of doing this! I’m tired of you!_ **

You both eat in silence, concentration entirely on the plates in front of you. It’s an easier alternative than opening the can of worms that’s conversation. You try to remember the last time the two of had had a talk that lasted more than two minutes, in the gaps between waking up and rushing to his studio and to your office.

You can’t contain the scoff at the thought of the first day off that you both have in common being spent in suffocating awkwardness.

“What?”

You take in his suspicious eyes, his confusedly tilted head.

“Nothing,” you reply shortly, unable to keep the clipped tone from your voice at his accusatory manner, busying yourself with the food in front of you once again.

“You don’t have to hold back. Spit it out, why don’t you?”

You feel yourself starting to get annoyed again. “If I said it was nothing, why can’t you just drop it?”

He lets the fork land on his plate with a clang of metal against porcelain, eyes beginning to shift with an anger that you’re sure is reflecting your own. “It very obviously wasn’t _nothing_.”

Your cutlery falls to the table too, and vaguely, you remember being in the exact same position last night, annoyed and vindictive and ready to lash out. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“I don’t _have_ a bloody problem – _God_ , fuck, forget it. We’re doing it again.”

You bite back the words that were about to slip from your tongue, an angry rebuttal that would have been the same regardless of his reply.

“We’re doing it again,” he repeats, softer this time, shoulders dropping from their previous fighting stance, his eyes closing wearily as he falls limp against the back of his chair emitting a long sigh.

You hiss out a deep, frustrated breath, willing the acrimony to leave your tired mind, fresh waves of exhaustion wracking your body.

“We’re some fucking pair, aren’t we?” you say through a bitter chuckle, vexed at how difficult it is to have a civil conversation between two people who have problems with everybody but each other.

His low, humourless laugh is a far cry from the guffaws he used to let out when the two of you would eat together, when you pulled a funny face or when he used to tell you the latest Bangtan shenanigans to your eager, excited ears. It’s been a while.

“Should we…should we take a break?” you ask, hesitantly, terrified of his answer. Under the table, you pluck at your finger nails.

Your heart veritably stops for a second as he nods, but you let out an internal sigh of relief when he follows it up by saying, “I think so. We should cool down a bit before dinner.”

Swallowing in simultaneous relief at how he didn’t pick up on what you were implying and apprehension that now you have to spell it out, you meet his burnt out gaze with your own trepidation filled one before slowly, mutedly saying, “I meant a little longer than a few hours, Hobi.”

He still doesn’t seem to understand what you’re hinting at, only cocking his head to the side quizzically and asking, “A few days, then?”

“If that’s how long it takes.”

In the heavy silence that follows, with you looking at Hobi, waiting with bated breath for which answer, you don’t know, his face runs through shock, aggravation and sadness, finally settling on the hard, blank mask that you’ve had the pleasure of witnessing for the last twenty four hours. It doesn’t have the usual annoyance, though. It’s just…empty. Concealed behind the façade that he normally reserves for red carpets that he has to attend even if he doesn’t want to and rude interview questions. It’s unsettling, how you can’t read him, and more than a little concerning.

“Do you want to break up?” he asks, and in that one moment, there’s a tiny crack in the statue and you catch a glimpse of the fear, the disquietude, the anxiety in his eyes before the mask is back on.

But the damage is done.

Immediately, you’re out of your seat and rounding the table, tugging one of his willing hands so he’s standing up and you’re hugging him, squeezing the very life out of him, and hoping it’s enough to hold together the hearts you very nearly just broke.

His arms wind around your waist just as insistently, and now he’s whispering things into your hair and you _missed_ this, missed _him_ and his love and comfort and laughter.

“It’ll be fine,” you mutter, over and over into his neck, not exactly clear about whom you’re trying to reassure. “We just need to talk more, and stop sniping at each other every chance we get. It’s okay, we know the theory, we’ll be alright.”

He nods against your head as he mumbles, “I’m sorry I was a dick. It’s been stressful trying to get this album done in time and I took it out on you.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you reply, pulling away slightly so you can look him in the eye. “Next time we both have a shit time at work, we’ll spend a whole weekend bitching about it, okay? No more festering.”

And at his agreeing watery snort and shaky exhale, you bring your thumb up to his face and finally, _finally_ wipe off the damp, brown mud from his left cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to hear feedback, spread the love!  
> find me on tumblr (where everything is cross posted) at @min-youngis :D


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